Ho! Ironsides of Cromwell, ye've got grimmer work to do,
Than when on Naseby's ruddy morn your ready swords ye drew—
Than when your headlong charges routed Rupert's tried and best,
Ere yet the glare of battle fainted in the loyal West.
Those swords must break a stouter foe ere ye break Erin's weal
Or stamp your bloody title-deeds with Cromwell's bloodier seal;
The dead men of Elizabeth's red reign for comrades call,
The Scots we sent to-day have need of ye to bear their pall;
There's room for undertakers still, and none will say ye no
To such fair holdings—measured by the sword of Owen Roe.
Ho! ring your bells, Kilkenny town; ho! Dublin burghers pass
In open day, with open brow, to celebrate the Mass.
The Sword of State that Tudor hate laid sore on Church of God,
Hath fallen here with shattered hilt and vain point in the sod.
Ho! holy Rinnuncini, and ye high lords of the Pale
Lay by your sheets of parchment, and put on your sheeted mail,
For God hath spoke in battle, and His face the foe is toward,
And ye must hold by valour what He hath freed by sword.
Yea, God in fight hath spoken, and thro' cloud hath bent His brow
In wrath upon the routed—but in hope o'er Owen Roe.
[Oliver Cromwell]
1650-1659
(Addressed to the Liberal Members who "went back" on their previous vote and rejected the grant for his statue.)
"Tear out the page his hand hath writ in blood."
Aye! tho' a decade filled with mighty deeds
That page records; what though in it the seeds
Of greater freedom sprung, than ever stood
On any shore, to shadow freedom's brood.
The lordly oak from which a fleet proceeds
May fall unhonoured; can mere party needs
Fill your hands too, with this consenting mud?
We Irishmen found only shade to die
Within the shadow of that mighty tree;
But you base Englishmen it bore on high,
And girt your commerce safe on many a sea:
O! may the people Cromwell taught, deny
Your right within these walls, and turn the key!